


I am the big bad wolf (and he is just the moon I've been howling to)

by xdandelionxbloomx



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Familial Love, M/M, love and being in love, murders and abuse mentioned, now it's 7.5k oops, read the first author note please!, some descriptions of death, the au in which Jaskier is a god, this was supposed to be like a 3k worth of prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdandelionxbloomx/pseuds/xdandelionxbloomx
Summary: Mother took his hands in her own, thumbs brushing back and forth as she looked up into his eyes, searching them for something.She seemed satisfied and smiled softly.“You are strong.” She murmured, and did not elaborate. “Tell me, who are you?”The young God hesitated, brows drawn together. She waited patiently.“I don’t know.” He said, softly, and she brightened.“You will.” Mother said, with a laugh that was deep and wide as the sky above. She let go of his hands to cup his cheeks, tugging him down to press a kiss to his forehead.“You will, my darling one.”-Or, the one in which Jaskier is born a God and must find himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 555





	I am the big bad wolf (and he is just the moon I've been howling to)

**Author's Note:**

> Mignole is from the Witcher 3 game - no big spoilers but she and Vesemir had a ThingTM. 
> 
> Warnings: some death, mentions of abuse, allusions to suicide, murders - Death is a pretty brutal presence in this fic, she's a God herself
> 
> The title and brief excerpt of lyrics come from the song Wolf by Meghan Tonjes.

Once upon a time, a young God opened his eyes to a snow filled world. 

The layer of white sparkled in the sun and a young woman crouched before him with a smile on her thin lips. Her blue eyes sparkled in the sun, blonde hair loose, ruffled by the breeze. 

She offered up her hand and he had taken it without hesitation - why should he distrust if he did not know better? 

“Who are you?” The young God had asked, quietly, as he got to his feet. He was bare, but the cold did not kiss his skin - he did not know it was supposed to be cold, after all. 

“Your Sister.” She had said, simply, softly, and squeezed his hand. He did not understand why it made him smile so, but it had, knowing that he was not alone in the world. 

This strange frozen world. 

“Where are we?” He had asked, quietly, jumping a little when fabric draped itself over his person, flowing and loose. 

“A place that will be called the Continent.” She answered, leading him by the hand through the barren trees. 

A creature darted over the path in front of them and her gaze followed it - it was the first time that the young God felt unbalanced. 

She turned back to him and smiled once more, soothing the feeling. 

“Who am I?” He asked, finally, when the silence felt like it was unbearable. 

“Whoever you’d like to be.” His Sister said, with a slight shrug. “Not all of us will make it. Choose whatever you’d like.” 

A soft trilling note above them - his gaze lifted to watch a feathered thing take wing, launching into the silver-grey sky. 

“Where are we going?” 

“You ask an awful lot of questions, don’t you?” She asked, lips twisted in something that bordered on annoyance. He didn’t understand why. Everything was so unknown, was he simply supposed to accept it? She huffed at him quietly - “We’re going to see Mother.” 

“Mother.” He echoed, quietly. 

“Yes, Mother. She made you, me, everything that you see. She is the root of all.” His Sister said so matter of factly, as if he should have had this knowledge. He hadn’t and he did not know if he should feel ashamed or not. 

They finally emerged from the trees into a clearing that stretched on and on. 

There, in the center, was a woman. 

She was heavyset and short, with curly hair that fell nearly to her hips. Kind eyes, though he could not read their color - they never seemed to settle on one. She wore fabric like his own, though it had been cinched at the waist with a cloth belt. 

She reached a hand out for him and the sun hitting the snow behind her made her _glow_. 

His Sister let go of his hand and he glanced at her nervously, before stumbling forward. 

Mother took his hands in her own, thumbs brushing back and forth as she looked up into his eyes, searching them for something. 

She seemed satisfied and smiled softly. 

“You are strong.” She murmured, and did not elaborate. “Tell me, who are you?” 

The young God hesitated, brows drawn together. She waited patiently. 

“I don’t know.” He said, softly, and she _brightened_. 

“You will.” Mother said, with a laugh that was deep and wide as the sky above. She let go of his hands to cup his cheeks, tugging him down to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“You will, my darling one.” 

+++

The first time that he hated his Sister, she knelt by the head of a one horned creature. 

It was not of their world, but it was beautiful and intelligent and _bleeding_. 

She brushed her fingers over its twitching hide, smiling. It was not a true smile. It held no joy. In some ways it was _hungry_. 

The young God trembled as the creature groaned and grunted, breath rattling and wheezing out of its chest. 

“Sister.” He had begged, softly, and she shot him a glare. 

“Someone has to do this.” She had said, simply, and the young God had flinched. He didn’t understand _why_. 

_Why_ things had to die - especially things so beautiful. 

The creature thrashed, tossing its head. 

It was the first time that the young God heard a Death Rattle. 

He could not meet his Sister’s eyes afterwards and when they parted that time, he did not seek her out again afterwards. 

The ravenous look would not leave his memory. 

It _frightened_ him. 

+++

The humans sat around their roaring bonfire, talking and drinking. 

For once, they were not worrying about the creatures and Chaos that roamed the world around them. 

Instead, the women bounced babes on their hips and danced with menfolk, laughing and grinning. Children giggled. 

Above all, they _sang_. 

The young God watched them with eyes fond beyond measure, heart aching. 

Oh, to join them, to raise his voice as they did, filling the night’s darkness with sound - to declare loudly _I am here_. 

He loved their stories for the same reason. 

The young God startled when a woman seated herself beside him. 

Heavyset, curls down her back, kind eyes ever changing - she did not look at him, but the young God knew that he held her attention all the same. 

“Do you know who you are?” She asked him, softly, and the young God shook his head a little. 

“I know what I like.” He answered her, his voice just as quiet. 

She turned to look at him, raising a brow. “Tell me, Child.” She did not demand it, but it rolled from his throat anyway as if she had. 

“Stories. Singing. Good food. How they look at each other.” The young God nodded towards the couples dancing together. 

Mother’s eyes softened and she reached out, cupping his cheek. “Oh, Child.” She breathed and then sighed, as if a weight had blanketed over her shoulders. “You have chosen the most beautiful and terrible thing of all.” 

The young God did not understand. He blinked at her in confusion. 

“Love, darling one. At the root of all of those - it is _love_ .” Mother explained, and then moved to stand. She brushed his hair back from his face. “It is yours, if you wish it. I will send you to them, properly now - for they will need _you_ most of all if that is what you want.” 

The young God watched her quietly. After a great length, he nodded. “Yes.” A whisper. “That is what I want.” 

She smiled at him, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Go, darling one. Do not let them forget.” 

Mother left, then, disappearing into the darkness beyond the bonfire. She melted into it, gone as if she had never been there at all. 

A weight dropped onto his head and the young God startled in surprise, turning his head to see the girl standing before him. 

“You should be wearin’ flowers, sir.” She said, and the young God floundered - he had not been _seen_ before. 

He finally mustered a smile. “Thank you.” He murmured, and she flushed, dipping her head before running off back to the festivities. 

Several curious eyes rested on him now and the young God realized with a sharp inhale that he could feel the heat of the bonfire, the chill of the wind at his back. 

He was with them, truly. 

+++

Love was hard to grasp. 

The young God stared down at the woman bleeding at his feet. 

“I loved her!” The man screamed as he was dragged away, the other men gripping his arms tight so that he couldn’t fight free. The woman’s child wept to the side and the young God moved to kneel by her. 

He drew the girl into his arms, holding her against his chest as he crooned a lullaby, pressed his nose to her filthy hair. 

His Sister stepped forward from behind them and he held the girl tighter as the Death Rattle echoed into the air. 

His Sister knelt by the woman, that nearly greedy look present on her face. 

“See?” She asked him, as she grasped at the corpse. “You’re no better than I.” 

The young God had to look away, eyes prickling with an unfamiliar heat. 

“We are both famished in our own ways.” She said, and the young God shook his head slightly, scooping the girl into his arms and carrying her away from the scene.

She could not hear his Sister, but he could not bear to hear her any longer. 

+++

The young God did not get _invoked_. 

He did not have a name. 

Every time Mother visited him, he did not have a name to give her. He did not know who he was, did not know what to tell her. 

He could not be called without a name. 

And yet, as he blinked away his disorientation, he stood as if he _had_ been. 

Before him, a boy trembled. 

He looked at the young God with wide eyes - wide, _yellow_ eyes. Slit pupils - the young God could feel Chaos swirling about him and he tipped his head slowly, curious. 

“Child?” He asked, voice low and careful, trying not to spook the boy more than he already was. 

“Don’t.” Gasped, pained, full of a fear that the young God had usually associated with the time before his Sister arrived. The boy didn’t look sick, though, and the young God hesitated before he crouched, searching his face. 

“I won’t harm you.” The young God murmured. “You called for me.” 

The boy’s tears finally spilled over, trailing hot, red trails down his cheeks and dripping from his chin onto his shirt. The young God wanted to reach out, but he held steady, afraid to send him running - though he wasn’t sure where he might run in a place with stone walls like this. 

“I -” The boy choked, hands shaking as they came up to scrub at his face roughly. “I didn’t.” He insisted. 

The young God searched his face, finally reaching out a hand. “You did.” He said, softly. “Otherwise I would not be here. I was in a place you call Velen.” He murmured, and watched the boy sniffle. 

“I was thinking about my parents. Not-- not _you._ ” The boy snapped, and wrapped his arms around himself. 

“What about them?” The young God waited patiently for the answer, remaining crouched with his hand extended. 

The boy glared, but his resolve began to crumble quickly, lip trembling. He bit down hard on it, hard enough that the young God smelled the metallic tang of blood in the air. 

“Why didn’t they love me?” The boy broke, voice wobbling before he sobbed softly. 

The young God didn’t wait any longer, he leaned, pulling the boy into his arms and tucking him beneath his chin. Small arms wrapped around him, tangling in the bright clothes he had taken to wearing. 

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry.” The young God murmured it, closing his eyes and burying his nose in the boy’s hair. He held him tightly, let him cry through his emotions. 

He finally pulled back to swipe some of those tears away gently. “I’m sorry, darling. I cannot-- I cannot _change_ that. But I--” He searched the boy’s face. “But _I_ can love you.” He told him, softly, moving a hand to brush the boy’s hair back from his face. 

The child carried a misery and pain _far_ beyond his years. The least the young God could do was give him a few years of being cared for. 

“Why would you do that?” The boy asked, defensively, and scrubbed at his face. 

“Because you should be loved.” The young God answered, simply, and the boy’s face crumpled again. 

“You’ll need to remember something to call me, alright?” The young God asked, drawing the boy into another hug. “Something I can know to look out for when you reach with intent.” 

There was quiet for a few moments. 

“Dandelions? If I think really hard about dandelions, will that work? Like wishes?” The boy’s voice was so quiet and small that it broke the young God’s heart. 

“Yes. Yes, that will work.” He said, softly, rubbing the boy’s back. 

+++

Dandelion perched on the walls of Kaer Morhen, tucked away to watch the boys train. 

These, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, needed his love. 

He came whenever they called, especially the boy he could sense sneaking up on him. 

His lips twitched into a smile and he laughed when the boy threw himself on his back. 

“Dandelion!” A teenager now, his voice had dropped and Dandelion still found himself unused to the sound. 

“Vesemir.” He grinned, slinging an arm around his shoulders and using his free hand to ruffle his hair. “Have you been behaving?” 

“Never.” Vesemir’s grin was a bit feral, his cat eyes twinkling even in the shadow. 

Dandelion shook his head and pushed him away a little, letting him perch beside him on the wall. They watched the other boys train together. 

“Do you want to talk about why you called me?” Dandelion finally asked, no longer content to linger in the uncomfortable feeling that had gathered between them in the lull in conversation. 

Vesemir looked away, pressing his lips together, thinning them in clear agitation. 

Finally - “They’re sending me on the Path for my first contract as soon as the last of the ice thaws.” 

Dandelion sucked in a breath and swallowed thickly. 

For a moment, his Sister’s face swims in his vision. He blinked it away and reached to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “You’re strong.” He said, repeating his Mother’s words. 

“Am I?” Vesemir asked, solemnly. 

“Yes.” Dandelion’s voice was firm, not allowing room for argument. 

A beat of silence. 

“I’m scared.” Vesemir finally admitted, thickly, turning his gaze on his lap. Dandelion watched him for a few long moments, leaning over to gather him into his arms. 

“You are strong. You will walk your Path true.” He assured - because he could not promise him that he would live. He could not make that promise to anyone. 

“Thank you.” Vesemir whispered. 

+++

Dandelion did not get called by Vesemir again. 

He knew he lived, but he was not called and he had so many things to do always that he could not afford to find him on his own. 

In some ways, he wondered if Vesemir had grown to hate him. 

He did not feel his love reaching like he used to.

+++

Mother found him standing over the body of a boy. 

“You will not take him!” Dandelion’s voice raised over his Sister’s. 

“He has to go.” She said, taking a step closer. 

Dandelion straightened, hands clenched into fists. He did not know what he would do, but he would do whatever it took to keep the boy here. 

“You can spare him.” Dandelion argued, trembling. 

Mother stepped between them, leaning to peer at the boy around Dandelion. He did not move even for her. 

She met his gaze briefly and then sighed softly. “He has to go, my darling.” She murmured, and stepped forward to take his arm. She tugged slightly and Dandelion planted his heels. 

“No.” He said, shocking both his Sister and his Mother. 

“Child, don’t challenge me.” Mother said, warning in her voice - it crackled with the power of a thunderstorm, of a dragon’s roar. 

Dandelion did not budge. 

“Babes are not spared from Death.” Mother said, again, tightening her hold on his arm. He winced, but did not take a step forward. 

“He was not loved.” Dandelion murmured - not even by _him_. He had been called too late, had heard his Death Rattle fading. 

“You cannot love everyone.” His Mother replied and sounded truly _confused_ by the thought, like it was truly impossible. 

“ _I_ cannot, yes, but I _can_ love those that no one else does.” Dandelion snapped, and found two incredulous gazes on him. 

“Why would you _want_ to?” His Sister demanded, glaring. 

“Because they need it.” Dandelion lifted his chin in defiance, an echo of his Mother’s words once upon a time. 

She tipped her head at him as his Sister fumed. Consideration. He met her gaze evenly. 

“He will get one year. Then your Sister may collect your debt.” Mother stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the child’s forehead. 

He sucked in a deep, startled breath and Dandelion crouched beside him, gathering the boy into his arms, weeping silently as he rocked him back and forth. A year was not very long, but he could take him away, could show him what it was like to be loved. 

That would have to be enough. 

As his Mother and Sister left, he realized that Mother had not asked him if he knew who he was. 

+++

When his Sister came to collect, Dandelion sat by the boy’s bedside, clutching his hand until it had long turned cold and still. 

It was so _quiet_. 

Dandelion could not stand it. 

So he sought out noise - found Oxenfurt. It was a growing city, full of color and music and singing. 

It would do nicely as a distraction. 

+++

The boys still pulled at him, but Dandelion could not bring himself to go, did not know if he had it in him to bear watching another die before his very eyes. 

It ached like nothing else ever had, but he ignored them. 

“Cheer up, buttercup!” A woman chirped beside him and Dandelion turned his tired gaze on her. 

She was beautiful, but reminded him too much of his Sister. She had blonde hair, too, although her eyes were a warm brown. She grinned at him and Dandelion could _feel_ the love radiating off of her. 

For a moment, it helped. 

“Buttercup?” Dandelion echoed. 

“Hm. It rhymes better than Dandelion.” She grinned at him and Dandelion pursed his lips. She wasn’t _wrong_ \- 

And it would, in some way, let him leave behind what he had been before. 

“Buttercup.” He echoed, again, and then dipped his head a little. “I think you’ve done me a favor.” Dandelion smiled, though it was more wistful and sad than anything else. 

The woman’s grin dimmed a bit, but her eyes did not lose their kindness. Finally she extended her hand and wiggled her fingers. 

“Come. Dance.” She murmured, “Forget for a while, whatever haunts you.” 

Dandelion stared at her hand. 

He reached out and forgot. 

+++

Later, Buttercup would learn that it had been another Sister of his - one he hadn’t known he’d had. 

Destiny. 

She was younger than him, younger than Death. 

Destiny liked to play games - 

Over the years he was witness to some of them, witness to the set-up of something not even he could fathom. 

She became Mother’s favorite - his other Sister was incredibly bitter about the development. She was the eldest, why did this new Daughter deserve so much praise? So much love?

Death lingered around him, begged with her ravenous eyes. 

“It doesn’t work like this.” Buttercup finally told her, standing beside her in the cold winds of winter. 

“It can.” She said, desperately. “We are so intertwined. They love so deeply _because_ of their limited time. You can love me like you love them, you can.” 

Buttercup closed his eyes, remembered the boy, remembered the unicorn, remembered every Death Rattle he had to witness - 

“No.” He said, finally, and opened his eyes once more to turn his gaze on his Sister. “I will never love you. I cannot.” 

She sucked in a breath, sharp, as if she had been struck. Anger flashed in her eyes, though they welled with tears. 

“ _Why_ do you deny your Kin?” Her voice was a harsh thing - it reminded Buttercup of a serrated knife cutting through hide. 

“I don’t.” Buttercup said, softly. He reached out even as she flinched away. Her skin was ice cold to the touch, freezing not from the temperature around them, but rather from within. His smile held no joy, was just as sad and wistful as it had been when he had given it to Destiny. “I don’t deny you as my Kin. I just cannot give you what you seek. We are not intertwined, you and I. There does not need to be Death for there to be Love. You are needed in your own way, but not alongside me.” 

His Sister made a sound he had never heard her utter before. 

A sob. 

“Your emptiness is not something I know how to fill.” Buttercup squeezed her arm and then stepped away, letting his hand fall from her. 

“If it even can be.” His words lingered in the air, floating back towards her like the snowflakes that drifted lazily on the breeze. 

+++

Buttercup grew tired. 

He had been carrying so much for so long. 

Death was a shadow to him - and he a shadow to Destiny. 

He wondered in some ways if his Sister had been right when she said they were intertwined - if they were all intertwined - but seeing vampires, seeing sorceresses, Buttercup knew better. If they could live for so long and love so deeply - if they could tear up the plans laid before them - they were all separate. 

Perhaps that was why he finally stepped back, tore up the plans that Mother had placed before him, the plans he had accepted. 

Did he have to be a God? 

Truly? 

His fingers plucked at a daisy, petal by petal. 

A thought. 

His Mother had sent him to be among them, but what if he could be even more among them? 

What if, like Destiny said, he could _truly_ forget for a while? 

+++

A babe of noble Kerack birth by the name of Julian Alfred Pankratz came squealing into the world in the year of 1229 on a freezing winter morning, the sun making icicles twinkle. 

+++

Julian hated his name. 

“ _Julian_ .” Especially when it was his father saying it like _that_. 

“Where’s the boy?” He heard his father snarl at one of the servants who cowered with a soft noise. 

Julian peered out from under the desk he had stuffed himself under, making himself small as possible to hide. 

“I- I don’t know, sir.” The servant managed, voice small and quiet. 

“ _Find him_ . He will _not_ disrespect the family like this any longer.” 

Julian avoided detection for all of three hours. By evening, they had caught glimpses of him. 

When he made a break for it in the courtyard, one of the stable hands caught him by the arm - rough enough to bruise and bring tears to his eyes. He dragged Julian back to his father, even as Julian begged and kicked and screamed all the while. 

Julian received his punishment and was promptly sent away to temple school the next morning. 

+++

The temple was cold and unwelcoming. 

The wind bit at his skin, made his nose pink and fingers stiff. 

The cane they used to punish him never left permanent marks, but the stripes on the backs of his hands took time to fade. 

He usually had new ones before the old ones were gone. 

Julian learned to be quiet. 

Julian learned to watch and listen and _observe_. 

+++

Julian was thirteen when they taught him the language of flowers. 

In his textbook, the student before him had scribbled in the margins - and marked things out. 

Beside roses - _why so many meanings and colors? Utter shit._

It was interesting to read and Julian actually devoted himself to his studies for once. 

Dandelions had a favorite note of his. Originally it had read _healing_ _and joy_ , but the student had marked through it and written _surviving_ instead. 

The one that stuck with him the most, however, was buttercups. It had been noted the plant was poisonous and that they meant _unfaithfulness and ingratitude_. 

The student before had changed it entirely. 

_Jaskiers mean new beginnings._

Julian brushed his finger over the scratchy handwriting for a very long time. 

+++

Jaskier turned up at Oxenfurt at age fourteen with nothing but the clothes on his back. 

Five years later, he was a professor at the University and an accomplished poet. But - 

His songs lacked something. 

_He_ lacked something. 

Jaskier never quite could figure it out. Standing still, staying stagnant, would not help him. Despite the University’s plea, Jaskier took to the road. 

Poetry, he told the other professors when they begged for pointers to teach, was not always something that could be taught. It lived in the soul. The key was getting the students to open themselves up, to put to paper - to say to the world - that which everyone else hid. 

Jaskier did his best to tell his stories, though frustration made him turn to raunchy, ugly ditties just to get a bit of food thrown at him - enough to survive. 

+++

In a little tavern at the edge of the world, Jaskier met Geralt of Rivia. 

He found what he’d been lacking. 

+++

“Stop fussing.” Jaskier huffed, perched on the stool behind the bath. 

“You’re still healing and I’ve got hands. Just stay still.” He said, grabbing for the pitcher. He tipped Geralt’s head back with a careful hand, running water through it, getting out the worst of the chunks and debris. When he had done so, he reached for the soap. 

Geralt’s brows were furrowed and he looked… largely disgruntled. There was something else there, though, below the surface that Jaskier couldn’t identify. 

And he would not allow it to give him hope. 

Instead he focused on lathering up his hands, working them through Geralt’s hair. He was careful not to catch on tangles, scratching nails against his scalp to loosen the dirt there. 

Beneath his hands and before his very eyes, the great White Wolf _melted_. 

Jaskier’s chest swelled with an emotion he did not want to name - the emotion that drove all his songs about the witcher before him. If he named that emotion, it would be too much. It would overtake him, would push the words up and out of his throat. 

To push them down, Jaskier hummed softly, a tune that he’d been working on. 

The words were for him and him alone - he doubted that he would sing it to anyone besides the mountains, the trees, the sea breeze that smelled of salt and freedom - 

Geralt _sighed_ , leaned into his hands, and Jaskier _knew_. 

+++

“Here.” Jaskier handed over the cloth bundle wrapped with colorful twine with a smile. 

“What’s this.” Geralt’s tone was utterly flat and Jaskier huffed, gesturing at him. 

“Open it.” He insisted, the fire flickering before them. It cast orange-gold light over them both, the witcher’s profile sharp and soft all at once. 

Geralt cast him a distrusting look - 

They’d passed through Novigrad earlier in the day and _yes_ , alright, maybe Jaskier had gotten into a bit of a scuffle. It was not, however, about a spouse like Geralt thought it was. No, it was matter much more important and personal to him - 

_The man had called Geralt monster, butcher, unfeeling - Jaskier had thrown himself at him with a snarl -_

Anyhow, Jaskier had purchased the little treat because he’d seen Geralt eyeing the vendor forlornly from his place at the alchemist’s cart. 

The witcher beside him tugged at the twine and let the cloth fall open. 

There, in the center of his palm, a sweetroll. 

Geralt inhaled sharply - even Jaskier could not miss that. 

Cat eyes turned on him, pupils rounded in surprise. The witcher’s brows furrowed and he did not say anything for a long moment. 

Jaskier gestured - “Well, go on. I got it for you.” He insisted. 

The witcher moved slowly, took a small bite and seemed to let it melt there for a few moments. After he finally swallowed, he asked, “What’s this bribery for?” 

Jaskier’s heart dropped. 

“Nothing.” He answered, simply. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was a warning in itself. 

Jaskier reached out, placed his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “It’s not bribery. I wanted to get that for you because I thought you’d like it. Because I thought it’d make you happy, my dear.” 

Geralt flinched before turning wide eyes on him, utterly silent. Jaskier met his gaze without moving the hand on the witcher’s shoulder. 

He did not know how long they simply looked at each other, but he thought that night changed things. 

It was the first time that Geralt seemed to understand that Jaskier did not stay with him for the songs - which had been a flimsy excuse in the first place anyhow - but instead for _Geralt_ himself. 

“Oh.” Geralt breathed. 

+++

They were friends. 

Best friends. 

It was enough - more than enough. 

Jaskier got to see Geralt at his most vulnerable and be _trusted_ with it. 

And then Destiny fucked it all up. 

+++

Jaskier walked alone down a mountainside. 

He left his pack. 

The only thing he had were the clothes on his back and the lute in his hands. 

His hand struck the body, fingers strumming at the strings restlessly, the song he had half written, always ever changing in his mind. 

“ _I say that I don’t want to hurt you_ -” Jaskier sang it to himself, backtracked on autopilot the way they had come, winding down. “ _I know that I really do._ ” 

Jaskier ended up at the base of a mountain with no idea where to go next. 

“ _I’ll go where the wind may take me…_ ” 

Jaskier pointed himself in the direction of Toussaint - if nothing else there was good wine to be drunk and good company to be had. 

+++

It was a sunny day in Toussaint. 

Jaskier’s outfit was a lovely lilac and he’d recently acquired a hat that he thought looked rather silly, but it was of the fashion of the area so it had to match. 

It was never cold here like it had been on the road with Geralt and he could lull himself into a false sense of joy with wine and song and _art_. 

It was fake, all of it, but it was worth pretending just for a little while. 

Jaskier swept around a street corner, laughing at something the man behind him had shouted - 

He didn’t look where he was stepping and subsequently ran straight into an older woman. She fumbled her basket of fruits and they fell about her to the street as she made an annoyed sound. 

“Oh! Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.” Jaskier immediately apologized, swinging his lute to rest at his back as he bent, filling the basket back up. He hefted the basket into his arms, surprised to find it heavier than he had expected - she had been carrying it without an ounce of effort it had seemed. 

“Let me carry this wherever you need it?” He implored and the woman searched his face shrewdly, but finally huffed a sigh and nodded. 

“Come with me.” She said, gesturing for him to follow. 

Jaskier walked dutifully along beside her, glancing over now and then to take in her features. Crow’s feet and deep smile lines, grey streaked through her once dark brown hair. She had regal features and Jaskier had no doubt she was of noble birth - though many in Toussaint around this area _were_. 

They approached a house that Jaskier could only ever dream of owning - not that he ever dreamed of necessarily settling - and the woman unlocked the door. 

“I’m home! The market didn’t have any blueberries today, my love.” She called and the sound of heavy boots sounded on the stairs. Jaskier paused in following her to the kitchen to see who her lover would be. 

An older man, grizzled and scarred lumbered down the stairs. His dark grey hair was pulled back into the same half down, half up style someone else he once knew favored and-- 

And the shocking thing was the cat eyes. 

Jaskier’s fingers spasmed on the handles of the basket and he inhaled sharply, surprise - in all his time with Geralt, he had only seen one other witcher and it hadn’t been _this_ one. 

No, this one-- 

His _eyes_ \- there was something so familiar about _his eyes._

The man tensed, one hand gripping the banister white knuckled, the other pulling a dagger from his hip - shining silver with runes carved into the blade. 

“Vesemir?” The woman called from the kitchen. 

And the world dropped out from beneath Jaskier. 

+++

 _“Because you should be loved._ ”

+++

Jaskier startled awake on a soft, velvet couch. 

Dandelion, nameless, lost-- 

Jaskier. 

Jaskier sat up, breathing out shakily. 

Across the dim room, perched the oldest witcher in the world - Vesemir of the School of Wolf. 

They peered at each other silently for a while. 

“I didn’t think you were real.” Vesemir murmured, his voice a low rumble. 

So different. Aged. Not necessarily weary, though. 

“I am.” Jaskier replied, voice just as low. The darkness outside the window of the room suggested that the woman from earlier was most likely in bed. 

Vesemir turned his gaze on the window. 

“What are you?” He asked, finally. “Silver didn’t affect you beyond a normal human’s reaction - that is, you bled.” 

And healed quickly, as the lack of wound suggested. 

“I doubt you’ll believe me.” Jaskier eventually answered. 

“Try me.” Vesemir challenged, turned his orange-gold gaze on the bard - the God - in front of him. 

+++

Vesemir had paled by the time Jaskier had explained all that he knew. 

“And you say you’ve been traveling with Geralt?” Vesemir asked after a great length of silence that felt as if it might swallow Jaskier whole. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to rise. 

“Yes.” Quiet, small. 

“Where is he?” The witcher sounded-- worried. _Now_ weary. 

“I don’t know.” Jaskier answered, honestly, “I-- we parted on bad terms. He does not want to see me.” Jaskier explained and his lips twisted into a pained expression. “I don’t-- want to talk about it much if I can. I came here to get away from it.” 

It seemed his younger Sister had decided to play her hand in his strange game of cards. 

“I’m sorry.” Vesemir shook his head - “The boy’s always been complicated beyond measure. He cares too deeply.” 

“It is good that he does.” Jaskier retorted, defensiveness bubbling up despite everything. “He would not be as good of a man if he did not - and he is the _best_ man I have ever known.” 

Vesemir inhaled. 

“You love him.” The witcher stated, more than asked. 

Silence. 

“I see. I’m sorry, Dandelion.” 

It made his chest tight, made tears prickle at his eyes. “Jaskier.” He corrected, voice thick. “Call me Jaskier now, if you would, please.” A shaky breath. 

“Well. You’ll always be a welcome guest in our house, Jaskier, whatever you decide to do.” Vesemir stood, squeezed his shoulder lightly. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier muttered, reaching up to circle the witcher’s wrist with his hand, giving it a small squeeze in return, lingering like that. 

+++

By the time Jaskier got word of Nilfgaard and Sodden-- 

Well. 

He knew that it had to have passed a while ago. It meant that both Geralt and the Princess’s location were up in the air and Jaskier, although he did not know what he would do, had to find them. 

Vesemir’s mount was a sturdy stallion that he’d handed over the moment that Jaskier told him of what he had learned from the knights errant. 

They’d clasped forearms and Vesemir had said, voice thick, “You bring him back. And _you_ \- be careful.” 

Jaskier had resisted all of half a second - he was pulling Vesemir into a tight hug after, clinging to him tightly. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier rasped, finally tearing himself away and mounting the horse. It danced below him, sensing his urgency. 

“Mignole and I will meet you at Kaer Morhen.” Vesemir assured him and Jaskier gave a sharp nod. 

A light kick of his heels, urging the stallion on, and they were off, flying down the city road. 

Startled cries rang out around him, but Jaskier had his eyes on the horizon and one goal in mind. 

_Find him_.

+++

Jaskier followed the rumors of Nilfgaard’s army across the Continent. 

Destruction in their wake. 

Jaskier could only hope Kaer Morhen would be as safe as Vesemir had assured him it would be. 

He did not know what they would do if it was not. 

+++

It took Jaskier a month to find Geralt. 

He had sensed his Sisters following him as well - followed their presence until he found the witcher. 

It was a Nilfgaard camp - soldiers settled about a fire. 

Geralt was bound and thin, chained to a cart. His boots were worn nearly clean through from walking, hair matted, beard grown out. He looked _horrible_ and he seemed like he could barely keep his eyes open, leaning against the wheel of the cart where he sat sprawled on the ground. 

In the back of the cart, in only mildly better condition, the Princess of Cintra sat. She was not chained, but the look on her face suggested that if she made any wrong move she would be punished and she _knew_ that. 

Jaskier pulled his horse to a stop at the tree line - a fair ways out from the camp. 

His Sisters lingered at the edges of the clearing, too, though he could not pinpoint their exact locations. 

It did not matter. 

Jaskier stepped from the treeline, wandering out into the clearing, warbling a soft song - it turned into a croon as eyes turned on him. 

Soldiers lurched to their feet, but Jaskier did something he had not attempted before - not like this. 

He _pushed_ at their minds. 

They fumbled with their weapons, gaping at him. 

“He’s beautiful.” One of the soldiers murmured in shock to which one of the others drew his sword. 

“And he’s mine, you prick.” 

“Excuse me?” 

They turned in on themselves, slashing and spitting and stabbing - it took all of five minutes of his influence to have them all scattered, groaning. Whether they were dying or not was irrelevant. 

Jaskier searched the men until he found the keys, bringing them to Geralt and carefully unlocking the shackles at his wrists. His arms fell limp to his lap and he groaned, though the sound died in his throat and he wheezed. 

“No, no-- you’re not allowed to do that.” Jaskier hissed, pressing his hands to his chest, leaning their foreheads together. “You’re not allowed to leave yet.” 

A Death Rattle sounded behind him. 

His Sisters had arrived. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and then breathed in, turning his gaze on them. 

“You can’t have him.” Jaskier said, firmly. 

“It’s his time.” Death said, lifting her chin. 

“He hasn’t finished my game yet.” Destiny said at the same time. 

“Fuck your game.” Jaskier snarled, hands cupping the sides of Geralt’s neck, pressing his thumbs to the curves of his jaw. 

“It’s important.” Destiny insisted. 

“It hardly matters either way, he’s coming with me.” Death stepped forward and Jaskier let go of Geralt to scramble to his feet, placing himself between his Sister and the witcher. 

“Who are you talking to?” The Princess’s soft, small voice came from behind him. 

He ignored it. 

“Geralt’s going _home_.” Jaskier snapped, his hands white knuckled fists at his sides. 

“He’s _dying_ , Love. You know this, you have to let him go.” Death stepped up, nearly into his space. 

“He can’t die yet, the game’s not been played, not really, there is so much I had planned! This will ruin everything! You have to let me fix it--” 

Destiny closed in on his other side and Jaskier didn’t even think when he struck out - 

His wrist was caught in a warm hand, everchanging eyes suddenly in front of his own. Jaskier flinched, but then held his ground as his Sisters scrambled back. 

“Mother.” They acknowledged, hurriedly, and Jaskier only set his jaw as he stood, staring down Melitele, Mother of All, without a word. 

“Children.” She said, squeezing Jaskier’s wrist before stepping back. 

He did not move from his position in front of Geralt. 

“Even you, you will not take him.” Jaskier’s voice trembled with anger, lowering his hand from where it had been stopped mid strike. 

“Who do you think you are to lay such a claim, Boy? I will choose what to do with the witcher, since--” Mother lifted her head as she stepped back, waves of disappointment rolling off of her. 

“I am Jaskier.” He answered, interrupting Melitele and speaking over her until she fell silent, looking at him in something like muted shock. “I am Jaskier and I am the God of Love. I am the God of Stories, New Beginnings, the Warmth of a Fire in Winter, and the Comfort of an Embrace. I am the God of Mercy, of Quiet Strength, of Music and Poetry.” 

A breath. 

“I am Jaskier and I am the God of the Hopeless Children, of the Lost, of the Outcast.” 

A clumsy hand reached for him, settled on the back of his calf, a wheeze. “ _Jaskier_.” Nearly lost to the air around them, so quiet it was. 

“I am Jaskier and I am the God of Witchers.” 

His Sisters looked as if they’ve been slapped. 

“You can’t be the God of all those things! That’s impossible!” Death protested, stepping forward, fury in her hungry - always hungry - eyes. 

Mother’s arm lifted, wordlessly held her back. 

“I am the God of Witchers and _I_ will choose what to do with the witcher because he is _mine_ . They are all _mine_ and you don’t get to have them anymore.” Jaskier was dimly aware of hot, fat tears streaking down his cheeks - burning red trails in their wake. 

Mother did not strike him. 

Mother tipped her head to one side. 

Mother _smiled_. 

“So you are.” She acknowledged, softly. 

Jaskier sucked in a surprised breath. 

“He is right.” Mother told his Sisters. 

“What?” Destiny breathed. 

“He is right.” Mother repeated. “And he is strong. You would do well to stay out of his way.” 

And then, just like that, she was gone. 

Jaskier stared at his Sisters in astonishment, just as startled as they appeared to be. 

But then, slowly, they, too, retreated. 

Jaskier stood for a few moments, numbed, until the hand at his calf pawed at him. 

“Oh, oh, my darling.” Startled back into the moment, Jaskier turned to him, crouching. “I’ve got you now, don’t you worry.” He assured, and carefully slipped his arms around the witcher. When he was sure he was steady, he hefted him up. 

Now that he knew what he was, it was hardly any effort at all to carry him to the horse where it had crept out to the edge of the clearing, to settle him in the saddle. “Work with me, my dear. Stay upright, okay? It’s all I’m asking.” 

A hand on Geralt’s thigh. 

“Kay.” Came the thick and slow response. Jaskier breathed out shakily. 

“Come here, Princess. We need to get going. Quickly.” 

The girl hesitated for only a moment, finally climbing out of the cart to hurry over as Jaskier tugged at the reins and began to lead the stallion into the trees. 

+++

They arrived at Kaer Morhen nearly a week later. 

Geralt was struck with fever and delirious, but they hadn’t been able to stop long enough to properly tend to him. 

All Jaskier had been able to do was _push_ him. 

But they had made it. 

The stone walls may have been crumbled, but Jaskier could remember this place so clearly. He wished he couldn’t.

+++

Jaskier, Mignole, and Vesemir end up on a rotating schedule to keep Geralt tended to. 

It took nearly a week before he was coherent enough to speak. 

Vesemir had sent Mignole to get him one evening from bed, encouraging him to get Ciri as well - when they approached Geralt’s chambers they could hear soft talking. 

Jaskier’s heart jumped to his throat and Ciri took off, slamming the door open. 

“Geralt!” She cried and Geralt _laughed_. It was low and raspy, but an arm reached for her and Jaskier watched them embrace, lifting a hand to press it over his mouth. 

The love there, new as it was, ran _so deep._ He doubted that Geralt even fully understood what he had just yet. 

And then cat eyes turned on him and Jaskier was _drowning_. 

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

Tears spilled over and he smiled helplessly under the onslaught. 

He hadn’t been able to feel it before, when he didn’t know, when he didn’t have access, but here and now-- 

It was so _clear_. 

Jaskier couldn’t breathe under the force of it. 

“Jaskier.” Voice low, wrecked. He reached his other arm for the bard and he approached the bedside, sitting on the other side, petting his hair back from his face and leaning to press a kiss to the top of his head. 

“It’s going to be alright.” Jaskier assured him, and Geralt grabbed for his hand, squeezing it tightly. 

“It’s going to be alright.” Jaskier repeated, softly. 

+++

Once upon a time, a God opened his eyes to a snow filled world. 

The layer of white sparkled in the sun and a young woman crouched before him with a smile on her full lips. Her green eyes sparkled in the sun, white hair loose, ruffled by the breeze. 

She offered up her hand and he had taken it without hesitation, brushing the snow off of his doublet with a huff. 

Ciri had gotten terribly good with her aim. 

“You’re getting lazy.” A rough voice called, the owner leaning up against the stone wall of the keep. 

“She’s getting faster.” Jaskier countered, ruffling Ciri’s hair as he wandered over to Geralt, leaning a hand up against the wall half caging Geralt in with a crooked smile. “You’re teaching her well.” 

“And she’s right here.” Ciri reminded behind them - 

Jaskier paid no attention as he leaned in to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips. 

It earned him a snowball to the back of the head, but all in all, he liked to think it was worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as xdandelionxbloomx as well!


End file.
